


Sick Puppies

by waxjism



Category: NSYNC
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-08-09
Updated: 2001-08-09
Packaged: 2017-10-06 09:24:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waxjism/pseuds/waxjism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>thanks to bron, helen and willa</p>
    </blockquote>





	Sick Puppies

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to bron, helen and willa

Sick puppy, he thinks, you're sick, sick, sick.

But he thinks that every time, and it hasn't stopped him yet. This is just one more step towards the left. A little sicker, and thus, that little bit more of a thrill.

He pushes the tape into the VCR and hits 'mute' and 'play' at the same time.

He's had it for a month. He's watched it fifteen times.

Sick puppy, he thinks again and sits down.

It was just gonna be a prank, of course. Innocent. How was he supposed to know that he was gonna get ... this.

Of course, if you put a camera in someone's bedroom, you're bound to get juicy stuff, but he didn't actually think JC was getting any at the time, and honestly, he was just going to have a laugh over JC's solo pursuits. Not for him to know that JC wasn't all that solo.

JC was sure as hell getting some. And now Chris has a tape and can't stop watching it. Watching it on the bus, with JC and Justin snoring in their bunks mere feet away is just way beyond the pale, but Chris thinks he's been in the pale for so long that he fucking well deserves it.

There's a long bit of boring darkness at first, but he hardly ever fast forwards, because it builds up anticipation, and he knows what's gonna happen. He leans back and slides his hand into his sweatpants, waiting. He only has to look at the tape now, the actual tape - innocuous black plastic, unlabeled and silent and full of dirty, dirty promise - to get hard.

When something happens, it happens fast. A sliver of light as the door opens, and then searing white light, and it resolves into a view of JC's messy bed, and then they tumble onto it, already clinging to each other, kissing and pulling at shirts and pants.

He knows what it sounds like; he doesn't need the soundtrack of muffled grunts and moans. He knows when JC says, "Fuck, fuck, Justin, do that-- do that-- ahhh--" and he knows the exact inflection of Justin's voice when he curses over JC's uncooperative buttonfly.

They do it with the light on, and Chris has been thanking God for that, even though it gives him a good bit of guilt to involve deities in his voyeuristic pleasure. But really, these are some of the most well formed boys on the planet (Hottest People Under 25 and all that) and they're young and enthusiastic and it takes a stronger man than Chris to not watch. And not want.

On the screen, Justin pushes JC's pants down and licks his stomach and down, and the view is crisp and clear and damn, but modern technology rocks. JC fists the sheets and lifts his hips and Justin opens his mouth, his sweet, red cocksucker mouth and Chris curls his hand around his cock and follows their rhythm.

He knows it all by heart already, every gasp and every thrust. Justin sucks cock like he really means it; eyes closed and hands gripping JC's jutting hipbones, throat working. JC throws his head back and his mouth falls open and Chris watches because he can't not. And he can time himself now; it's so familiar that he can hold back and ride it out. JC comes, thrashing and bucking and grabbing Justin's head rudely, driving himself into Justin's mouth and Justin takes it and takes it and it's clear that they've done it a lot, that they know each other and each other's every move. Then a brief hiatus when Justin sits back and wipes his mouth and JC lies panting, and they shuffle around the bed a little, JC turns over and Justin says, "I'm gonna, okay, I'm gonna fuck you, dude," and JC mumbles, "yeah, yeah," breathlessly demanding. Chris can watch all that and not come, keep up a slow rhythm, light pressure and hold back when it gets too intense, but he's somehow trained his body to follow the action and he won't come until Justin does, and he can almost smell JC's sweat and feel his muscles bunch under his fingers.

When Justin slides his hand down JC's back and over his ass, Chris groans out loud because he knows JC does. Then he remembers that he's on the bus, that JC and Justin are right there and he yanks his hand out of his pants and closes his eyes. Okay, quiet. He takes three deep breaths and puts his hand back. Strokes slowly and feels it build again.

When he opens his eyes, JC is standing in the lounge, looking at him. Behind him, porn-JC writhes and pushes his ass against Justin's fingers and Chris sees him mouth "just. fucking. do it--"

JC's eyes are shadowed and he's wearing boxers and nothing else, and when he shifts, his skin gleams in the flickering white glare of passing streetlights. His mouth is open, just a little, in confusion or shock or lust or anger or something, whateverthefuck else, and Chris can't see clearly, but he's pretty sure JC's hard.

He's still got his hand on his dick, and JC moves again, and he jerks and it's too late and he comes, suddenly and hard.

"Fuck," he says out loud.

JC turns slowly and looks at the TV, cocks his head, and Chris is pretty sure no one's ever been this ashamed before. Caught out there, and how. Hand down his pants, come all over the place and shameless porn, shameless voyeuristic porn starring two of his best friends still running merrily in the background.

He tries to trace his own train of thought, the one that lead to him getting his damn tape from the bottom of his overnight bag and sticking it in the VCR. What on earth convinced him it was a good idea?

There was the phone call earlier. After months and months, talking to Dani still makes him angry. It isn't like it doesn't happen twice a week or more, but he feels every word. And then he spent the evening with Lance and Joey and when he got back here, JC and Justin were curled up on the couch, this very couch. Not in a porny way, just in that we're here together and we want to stay that way type way, Justin leaning against JC's shoulder and JC's fingers painting random patterns in the stubble on Justin's head. Not anything Chris hadn't seen before, hell, done before, but it just looked so damned exclusive, and he knows that they're screwing and he's not getting any and it pissed him off. And when they went to bed, it was just him and the quiet beckon of the tape.

Yeah, that's the sequence of things, but having it all worked out doesn't make this any less fucked up, and he's still sitting here on the couch, reeling from a stealth orgasm and staring frozen and mortified at JC.

JC reaches out and hits 'pause'. Justin stops mid-thrust. Porn-JC has his face buried in the pillow. It hurts Chris to breathe, but he has to, just to stop himself from passing out.

He must have made a move or something, unconsciously, because JC holds up his hand. He forces himself to relax back into the couch and await judgement. JC seems oddly serene, but then he's like that. Hard to read because once he passes through the awkward, incoherent stage of annoyance into cold, hard anger, he calms down and goes deadly and quiet.

Chris finds himself at a complete loss for words. It's not a place he likes to be in, stumped and struck silent by JC, who can't make a quip without the help of a five-page tutorial and a personal trainer.

JC still hasn't said anything and it's a bad, bad, horribly fucking bad sign. At this point, Chris would love to be bitched out. Yelled at, punched in the face and kicked in the stomach. Oh, that would be a joy in comparison to hurt and silence and never-talking-to-you-again.

JC turns on his heel and disappears back to the bunks and godDAMN, if he's waking Justin up to share--

He is. Chris hears Justin's sleepy voice mutter something, JC whispering, the rustle of sheets and then they're coming back here, Justin shuffling in front of JC, rubbing his eyes and blinking in the low light.

"What--?" he says and JC has his hands on his shoulders, gently, and steers him towards Chris. Chris shrinks back and feels stupid and evil and sort of like a busted child pornographer on his way to jail.

Then he doesn't have time to feel that anymore, not through the mounting confusion, because JC pushes Justin down into his lap and he yanks his sticky hand out of the way and Justin lands on him, boneless and sleep-warm and heavy, and not much in the world makes sense anymore.

He looks up and meets JC eyes, and JC's face is still and calm and the corners of his mouth are curled up a little. But they always are. JC looks happy even when he's pissed off. His eyes glitter with something dark that Chris can't define and isn't sure he wants to.

"Wh--" he starts, and Justin moves in his lap, and he smells sweet and the back of his neck is pale and graceful and tempting and Chris has no idea what's going on.

JC hits 'play'.

"Hunh?" Justin mutters and looks up. Chris feels every movement, almost painful friction on his surprised dick. "Duuuude," Justin says slowly, but he doesn't get up. "Dude, wow," he says, and now there's something like awe in his voice.

Chris gives up and just leans back and waits. Justin slouches back against him, slides down a little, and more friction; his ass rubs against Chris, suspiciously non-randomly, and Chris curls his fingers into fists and bears it because he still doesn't know what the fuck is happening. JC stands where he stands and watches them with his glittering eyes.

"That's fucking porny, dude," Justin mumbles. "Fucking porn," but he doesn't look away from his porn-self fucking JC with familiar enthusiasm, and Chris looks, too, and can't help moving a little, just a little shimmy because everything's pretty fucking surreal, but it's also hot; Justin draped over him while the tape plays on, and Justin is leaning back and definitely rubbing, now, definitely, and did JC know this would happen? That Justin would wake up to see a tape of himself in a compromising position and just think it's hot and get into it?

JC stands quietly where he stands and looks like he knew everything years before Chris caught on. Chris isn't sure he likes feeling intellectually inferior to JC.

"Hey," Justin says and drops his head onto Chris' shoulder. "Hey, C, come on--" and JC moves now, silently, he fucking glides up to them and puts his hands on Justin's shoulders, and Chris sits still and tense while JC bends down to kiss Justin, slide his hands around his neck, and Justin moves, undulates slowly. Chris looks up at the TV screen and porn-Justin leans back and thrusts into JC, hard, and even though he just came, Chris feels the rise of it again. Conditioning, fucking hell, he thinks and tries to stop his hips from rocking up against Justin's ass. "Mmmh," Justin says and leans against him and slips a hand between them, casually stroking his fingers over Chris' stomach. This time Chris doesn't even try not to buck, because clearly, Justin isn't going to protest.

JC pulls Justin up, and Chris catches on - never let it be said that he doesn't get with the flow - and pulls down Justin's boxers. They slide down and pool around his feet and he steps out of them and flops back down into Chris' lap like an oversized ragdoll, and Chris touches his leg, gingerly at first, slides his hand over scratchy hair and between his legs, just smooth, hot skin. Justin mumbles something against JC's mouth and spreads his legs.

On TV, porn-Justin and porn-JC lie in a pile of sleek limbs, catching their breaths. Chris doesn't know where to look, but his dick has woken up once and for all now, all packed and ready for action, and his hands want more of Justin's skin, and skim up under his shirt and get hard stomach and hard chest and more smooth, smooth skin and Justin says, clearly, "Yeah, Chris, yeah--" and squirms against him, and heat flickers somewhere in the bottom of Chris' chest, right there and it pools in his groin and he bites his lip and pulls Justin down, closer, harder against his eager cock. He slides his hands up Justin's sides and meets JC's hands, touch, pull back and then JC grabs his hands and pulls, and they're all scrunched together, a little awkwardly, but it doesn't matter because Justin's making small, needy sounds and moves in a way that really should be videotaped and sold as porn, and JC leans past him and catches Chris and kisses him.

His legs are starting to protest the abuse of carrying Justin's weight, and it's almost natural to slide sideways along the sofa seat and end up on his back, Justin still perched in his lap. The sofa is big and broad and soft, but not made for a threesome, really, and JC ends up sitting on the floor, leaning over them, his mouth slick and nasty, clever, knowing on Chris'. Justin mutters and rolls over and mouths Chris' jaw. Chris lies helpless under them and wonders when he went from Evil Kiddie Pornographer to Hapless Victim of Wanton Sex Gods.

When JC pulls back for a second, Chris opens his mouth and asks them.

JC blinks a couple of times and Chris sees that familiar vacant look in his eyes; the JC-gone-fishing look.

"You were jerking off to us, man," Justin says and wriggles in his lap, licks his face like a dog, "That was kinda..."

"Sick?" Chris suggests, because he's feeling some residual guilt and this must be some kind of weird hallucination he's having, although frankly, it somehow seems like a hallucination JC would have. JC is a dirty boy, he knew that.

"How did you get that tape?" JC says softly. Chris feels cold shivers skitter eagerly down his spine and suppresses a shudder. When did JC master subtle menace?

He decides it was all in his head and says, "A miscalculation. The ignominious failure of a craftily ... crafted plan." He's hitting a stride now, despite Justin, despite Justin's mouth on his neck, despite JC, despite JC's hands on his chest. "You didn't advertise, boys, so how was the prankster to know that there was porn to be had?"

Justin leans back and pulls his t-shirt over his head. He's pale, ghostly in the careless flashes of streetlight, outlined against the dark room and drawn like a renaissance nude in ivory and honey. Chris loses track of what he was saying.

He turns his head, and JC is slipping out of his boxers, another gold-painted body, and Chris remembers why the thought of them together was such an irresistible idea in the first place.

JC steps closer, bends down over Justin. His skin is two shades paler than Justin's. Justin twists around and wraps his arms around JC, pulls at him and they kiss, slowly, nastily, and ohh, this is porn, live action in your living room. JC's hand sliding over Justin's ribs and down, his back, the soft curve of his ass. Justin's hands tracing the stark angles of JC's wiry body.

Chris realises, distantly, that he's watching again, like he's been watching for a month. They're in his lap, these two golden creatures, close enough to touch, but he's not touching.

Justin slips off his lap and lands softly on his knees in front of JC. The familiarity of the image is almost painful, and Chris can't stop his hand from sneaking back into the sticky heat of his pants. He can really smell them now, their sex and sweat, and maybe this is the next step in technology: virtual reality porn.

Justin is smiling lazily, looking up at JC, and JC's smiling back, sweetly, a perfect, sweet, happy JC smile, but he's got his hands on Justin's head and Justin yields and moves closer. Chris shivers again.

"You guys--" his mouth says before he can stop it. It's clearly the night of the independent body parts, because his mouth is making protests while his hand is curled around his cock, waiting for Justin to stop grinning and start sucking, and he bites his tongue before he says, "nevermind."

"Shhh," JC says, never taking his eyes off Justin. His smile stays on. A sunny smile that lights up his face, crinkles his eyes into crescents. It looks unguarded, but Justin's mouth is wrapped around his cock, Justin's hands are cupping his ass.

Chris gasps involuntarily when Justin strokes between JC's legs, pushes up, and JC throws his head back and now the smile disappears, is replaced by open-mouthed abandon.

Chris watches JC's mouth and then Justin's mouth and Justin's open, glazed eyes, and then the clean lines of their bodies, and listens to the small gasps and the lewd sounds of mouth and tongue on cock. Then JC groans deep in his throat, almost a grunt, and Justin's eyes flutter shut, his long eyelashes throwing sharp shadows down his cheek.

"Fuck," Chris whispers, mostly to himself. JC turns his head and stares at him, unsmiling now, eyes in shadow. He bucks his hips once, twice, sharply into Justin's mouth and comes, and it hardly shows on his face because his eyes are hard on Chris, nastier than Chris thought JC's eyes could ever be.

Chris tears his eyes away. Justin has moved away from JC's cock, swallows a couple times, licks the crease of JC's groin and down. JC spreads his legs a little in a spare, graceful movement, and Justin has a hand on his thigh and another still flush against his ass, and Chris cranes his neck to see Justin's fingers push into JC.

Then JC smiles again, at Chris, and says, still softly, "Do you like this?" He cocks his head, even, bird-like.

"I'm not--" Chris says and has to clear his throat to go on. "Not complaining, as such. Carry on."

"Oh yeah," Justin mutters, "sure, yeah--" but it's not clear whether he's talking to himself or to JC or to Chris, because he's still licking JC's inner thigh and twisting his fingers to make JC gasp and shiver. Chris gasps and shivers, too.

Chris realises that he's holding out for Justin. He's waiting for the finale, Justin's face scrunching up in that familiar way, his groan and shudder. Conditioning is such a fun thing.

Justin looks up at JC. JC looks down at Justin. Chris doesn't move.

They both turn to him at once, both stare at him with small frowns. He doesn't move. Something big, probably a rig, eighteen-wheeler, passes by on the road outside and floods the room with sound and light, and when it's gone, JC's crouching over Chris on the sofa, his eyes black and unreadable.

He takes a deep breath and opens his mouth. "Look--" he starts, but JC cuts him off with his mouth and clearly, Chris has no say in this; clearly, JC is in charge.

He's afraid to lift his hands. They're pressed flat against the scratchy fabric under him, flat and tense and he knows they'd tremble if he lifted them, if he tried to touch JC now. This has spiralled out of control; a far fly from the pleasant little stroking session he'd envisioned, but he figures he had it coming. And it's not unpleasant, per se. JC is stretched out on top of him now, the length of him covering Chris and holding him down, and there is no way Chris can call this 'unpleasant'. But it's definitely not safe; there's nothing safe about JC's odd, angular face or his dark eyes, or even the pale blur that is Justin somewhere behind them. The night and the whole fucking situation have transformed them into aliens from some strange Porn Planet, out to seduce and devastate, and Chris is getting devastated. He wonders if he'll recover.

JC shudders and groans into his mouth, and his hands clamp onto his shoulders, hard and unforgiving. Chris can't see anything, but he feels Justin move onto the couch, and feels what he's doing through JC, feels every shiver and hears every moan, and his fingers start aching before he realises he's been clawing at the cushion under him, scratching the surface compulsively. JC thrusts against him, is rubbing his cock against him, in fact, while he sucks on his tongue and squeezes his shoulders and what the fuck is Justin doing to him?

"Good to go?" Justin asks, and his face, flushed and red-mouthed and shiny-eyed, appears in Chris' field of vision.

"Good to go," JC says and smiles at Chris. It's not a sweet smile this time. Maybe it's a trick of the light, maybe it's Chris' brain making shit up, but that smile looks predatory, and JC's face looks more angular, bonier, less pretty and soft now, more like something not entirely human, pared down to geometrical surfaces.

"Then I'm going," Justin says and ducks back down. When he starts pushing inside, JC's eyes fall shut. Chris feels every tiny thrust like it's going into him. Their combined weight is making it hard to breathe and he's hot, sweating rivers, practically steaming. He can feel sweat beading on his forehead, trickling down his neck. JC somehow looks cool and pale still, even though Chris is sure he should be flushed bright red. It must be the light.

The freakiest thing, he thinks through the blood-hot haze of sex, must be how it's all so familiar. He can't remember ever wishing this would happen, but maybe he has, anyway. He's getting fucked on, and that is a pretty fucking weird place to be in; right in the middle and still outside, because he's still got all his clothes on and he's stupidly afraid to touch them and they're not really paying him much attention, apart from JC's kisses, which seem random and impersonal, like JC's just looking for something to do with his mouth, either kissing Chris or biting the pillow, and Chris is a handy mattress and he's getting what he wanted and getting nothing like what he wanted.

"Oh, JC," Justin mumbles, and his short, hitching breaths are painfully familiar, and Chris is hammered down by them, and hammered by his own reaction and oh, it works just like it has for a month; Justin's small whimpers and moans pull it out of him.

JC bites Chris' tongue when Justin slams hard into him, and Chris comes and it's like having the orgasm chewed out of him, battered out of him. "Ow," he says, mostly to himself. He tastes metal.

"Hoo, boy," Justin says, and JC pushes himself up and off Chris. Chris looks up and sees that the TV screen shows static and nothing else. He stares at it until his eyes hurt. JC and Justin are kissing languidly just at the edges of his vision, but he can't look straight at them. He's sticky and sweaty and feels like he's been run over by a bus twice.

"Come on," JC says and he almost gets up before he gets that it was for Justin.

JC hits 'eject' on his way, and takes the tape with him. Justin follows. He turns to smile at Chris, a goofy, tired, satisfied smile.

Chris doesn't smile back. Sick puppy, he thinks, but he's not sure who's the sickest one of this lot. He foresees a lot of not-talking-about-this in his immediate future, and that's okay. He'll be perfectly fine if no one ever mentions this again.

He gets up and turns off the TV. He'll probably miss the tape.


End file.
